Making A Meal Of It
by Teobi
Summary: John Tracy eats his microwaved meals for one and ponders what the heck it's all about.


Just a short story about John Tracy up in TB5 having to eat on his own. Sad!

Disclaimer- I do not own Thunderbirds. I have never owned Thunderbirds. Although I do have little toys of Alan, Virgil and Scott.

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><p><strong>Making A Meal Of It<strong>

John Tracy sighed as he nuked another plastic container of spaghetti bolognaise. Only four more days and then he would be going home. Back to Earth, old Terra Firma. Why was it always those last few days that always dragged?

He was so tired of eating soulless, reconstituted, cook-from-frozen and 'just add water' meals at his lonely Reheat and Serve station. He simultaneously cursed and praised the inventor of pot rice and pot noodles. He imagined his brothers chowing down on crispy chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. The tinny clatter of knives and forks scraping over plates. He could practically hear Tin-Tin's musical laughter as Scott recounted some exaggerated tale of derring do. Virgil talking with his mouth full. Gordon shouting over everyone. His father complimenting Grandma and Kyrano for another delicious home cooked meal. The clinking of glasses filled with, in some cases, ice cold beer. The...

He paused in his thoughts and skipped back.

Ice cold beer.

As he watched the plastic container rotating slowly in the humming microwave, John decided he would kill for an ice cold beer right now. Well, maybe not kill. He'd succumb to one of Gordon's pranks for an ice cold beer.

Yes, he would completely humiliate himself right now for an ice cold beer. He looked out at the spinning Earth and wondered just how many people were drinking ice cold beers at this very moment. Probably all of them.

The spaghetti sauce began to bubble ominously. Small brown specks spattered the door like little drops of blood. With a heavy sigh, John pressed the button to open the door before the bell rang and removed his Meal For One.

He poured the contents onto a plate without ceremony or enthusiasm. It was not what one would describe as a culinary masterpiece. The sauce was a fiery orange colour. The spaghetti dangled limply over the side of the plate like pale worms. He poked at it with a fork and steam rose up in clouds, signalling that once again, he'd put the settings on too high and it would take at least seven minutes for the temperature to lower from 'molten lava' to 'instantly cold'.

John sat at the counter and stirred the meal that had been heated through radiation. It was nothing like watching Grandma or Tin-Tin prepare a meal, or even Gordon, who tried his hand at cooking once in a while, with usually disastrous results. Pressing a button and watching your dinner spin around inside a small lighted cubicle was not really cooking, although microwaves themselves were useful things to have. He often needed to whip up something quickly in the middle of a hectic diurnal cycle, eating fast to keep his energy levels up while a rescue got underway.

Sometimes he'd melt two chocolate bars together and eat the resulting goo with a spoon while he watched a movie.

Then there was the time he woke up in what could only be described as a 'Gordon mood' and microwaved a whole egg upon which he had drawn a scowling face to represent the shadowy villain who was always trying to steal their secrets. He recalled how he watched with great interest as it sat in its egg cup and rotated slowly round and round. Eventually it began to shudder. Then it cracked, weeping sticky albumen down the man's 'face'. Moments later it exploded with a bang, making him jump out of his skin and spraying yellow gunk everywhere which took him forever to clean up. Still, it was a very satisfying end to the little eggy bad guy.

When all was said and done, despite the occasional exploding egg, microwaving wasn't really an exciting way to prepare a meal. In fact, the only things being excited were the food particles themselves as they huddled together under the electromagnetic onslaught. It was quick and convenient, but that's all it was. There was no love involved. No sense of personal satisfaction.

No company.

John ate just three forkfuls of his microwaved spaghetti and scraped the rest of it into the waste compactor.

Four days left.

On the morning he was due home, a rescue call came in. John had already packed his red travel bag and was sitting on the bed sorting out last minute memos and reminders for Alan. He rolled his eyes for a moment before getting down to the task in hand. He had long since gotten used to last minute delays. Besides, he figured an extra day in space was a very, very small price to pay for people's lives being saved. His sad little microwaved meals were the last of his concerns while his brothers sped to Danger Zones all over the planet. He could only stand there and listen to the cries of people in trouble, knowing that some of those people might never eat a decent, home cooked meal ever again, that some mothers might set the table for seven on a Sunday and remember that now there would only ever be six.

Just like there used to be seven in his family. And then there were only six, not including Grandma.

Luckily, this one was a simple rescue (if any rescue could ever be termed 'simple'), and there was only a short delay. By the time Scott and Alan arrived in Thunderbird 3, five and a half hours after the designated pick up time, John had eaten another bland packet meal and popped another can of Cherry Cola and was ready and waiting with his red bag clutched in one hand. As Alan poked his blond head through the hatch, John let out an exaggerated sigh of relief and flung his arms out to the sides, tipping his head back to look even further into the heavens than they already were.

"Jesu Bambine!" he declared. "Grazie, grazie!"

"Oh, shut up," Alan laughed. "Anyone would think you hated it up here."

"Alan, I have had the biggest hankering for mashed potatoes and gravy that you would not believe," said John. "I don't intend for anything else to get in my way until I have pressured Grandma into feeding her favourite grandson with all of his favourite foods."

"I've already eaten," grinned Alan. "But thanks for the thought."

"Get out of my way, you little punk," John grinned back, elbowing his youngest brother out of the hatch. "You'll find a list of things that need doing in the lounge, and guess what? I left you all the macaroni cheese and Ramen noodles you can eat."

"Ah, the Student life."

"You got it."

"Well," said Alan, thumping John on the shoulder, "you'll be pleased to know Grandma just made a fresh batch of apple pies this very morning. Scott already demolished one and a half, but I do believe there's one with your name on it."

"See you then, kid."

"Sure thing, John. Take it easy."

John made his way down the entry hatch and into the docking bay where the big red nose cone of Thunderbird 3 awaited his arrival. Not for the first time he felt as if he were in the departure lounge of the world's most exclusive airport as he cricked his neck looking up at the sleek rocket's impressive size.

"You're a beauty, my girl," he grinned, touching his forelock.

Inside the cockpit, Scott sat with his arms folded across his stomach and his legs splayed out.

"I hate long goodbyes," he drawled.

"So do I. But I didn't want to hurt the kid's feelings."

Scott laughed and sat up straight. "Want me to drive?"

"Why? You know I normally drive home. It's tradition."

Scott reached behind him and fished something out of a small bag that John suddenly noticed was hanging on the back of the seat-rest.

It was a cooler bag, and out of it Scott produced the most beautiful, desirable thing John had ever seen in his life.

"Bud Light," he gasped. "Scott, you sonofagun, if you didn't read my god-damned mind."

Scott handed John the bottle opener and watched his middle brother pop the lid and chug almost half the bottle in one go.

"Don't go too crazy," he chuckled. "It is Bud Light, after all. We don't want to get breathalysed on the way home."

"Can it," John slurred, slumping back in the co-pilot's seat and flipping his hair out of his eyes in dramatic style. "Just get driving. I need food to go with this beer."

"Aye, aye, Sir. And don't spare the horses?"

"Do not, on any account, spare a single horse."

"Wagons roll," said Scott, spinning his seat around to face the console. "We have ignition. Let's get you home, John Tracy."


End file.
